A Different War
by bugsfic
Summary: Two travelers meet on a rainy day.


_Originally posted 2011 as a birthday fic for friends on Livejournal. Another sort of an AU._

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May 2nd, 2011: Amsterdam:

She's so lost in the painting on the museum wall, she starts at the words: "To look into a man's mind as he's deciding to end his life." The man's voice, close to the woman's ear, is rough-edged, sending shivers up her spine.

"Yes." Her own voice falters as she takes him in. He's square-bodied, and smells of rain and wet wool. Silver-threaded hair waves back from a broad forehead. There's a thick brush of a steely mustache and a tuft of black hair under the stern line of his lower lip. Beads of raindrops balance on the wide shoulders of his leather jacket. A blue cashmere scarf is wrapped high on his neck, deepening the color of his direct gaze.

Not the usual scruffy backpacker she's seen in every church and museum in her travels so far. Nor the seedy intellectual European men, trolling for naive American women travellers.

She tears her eyes away, returning to the thick smears of paint on the canvas, violent yellow of the wheat fields and sharp black lines that form the circling crows. "Yes, it is disturbing," she says breathlessly. "How can beauty hurt so badly?"

"Isn't that beauty's purpose?" he asks and she clutches her umbrella tightly.

She looks around the room full of tortured, intense images. "I suppose it was the case for Van Gogh."

"Not for you?" he asks.

She couldn't possibly explain to this stranger what these pictures had been doing to her. She'd started at the beginning, with dark simple images of peasants, and had traveled through the vivid colors from the south of France. She'd wondered at a man who could capture the color of air and light. It was as though she were seeing into another plane of existence. When she'd come to the last pictures of wheat fields back in the Netherlands, she'd felt intimate with the painter.

Only...This man's given speech to her exact thoughts.

"So it's still raining?" she says.

"Yeah. I slipped into the museum to dry off for a moment. And found this lovely thing."

"That's what European travel is like," she babbles, "Some surprise around every corner. It can be rather overwhelming, really."

They drift toward the exit together. Outside the door, she opens her umbrella. He peers at the downpour.

"Still coming down, dammit," he says.

"You could go back into the museum," she suggests.

He tightens his scarf. "I'd rather go to a coffee shop," he says, that mesmerizing gaze on her flushing face again.

"Oh!" She blushes deeper red.

He chuckles. "Not that kind of coffee shop. The type you can breathe in."

He's waiting for her.

"Yes, that does sound nice," she says slowly, even though she wondered how jangled her nerves would be with caffeine added. "I'm sure there's one close."

"I believe there's one down the street," he says.

She releases a huff of air. "Then why don't we make a run for it?" she suggests, feeling daring.

Grinning, he wraps his arm loosely around her waist to fit under the umbrella with her.

"Adam."

"I'm sorry?" she says.

"I'm Adam Williams," he says.

A flock of pigeons rises before them as they hurry across a slick cobblestoned square toward the welcoming _koffie_ sign. "I'm Rose Lawrence."

After holding open the door, Adam motions for her to sit at a small table and goes to the bar for coffees. Opening her mouth, she realizes she hadn't told him what she likes. She hates when men think they can guess what you want—

He brings back two dark roast coffees, black pools in white china cups. Her favorite. She thanks him grudgingly.

He unwinds his scarf, drapes it over the back of his chair and unbuttons his leather jacket, pushing it open to reveal a thick black turtleneck. She pulls her own heavy raincoat closer, chilled by the damp, and fluffs her curling hair, trying to control its wildness.

"So, Rose, what're you doing in Europe out of season?"

Crossing her legs, she tugs her wool pants down. "I'm on sabbatical," she tells him.

"College professor?"

"High school English teacher. Took the spring term off." She shoots him a wicked smile. "I'm supposed to be gathering material for my classes."

He grins back, flashing white teeth under that thick mustache. "How long have you been over here?"

"Two months." She takes a quick sip of her coffee.

"Where all have you been?"

She shrugs. It's not that she's jaded already, but she's recited her itinerary to every American she's met. "All over. I have a rail pass and a rolling suitcase. Something catches my eye in the guidebook, I take off. I'm ready to move on tomorrow," she says, caution in her voice.

"Must be expensive."

"I received a grant, but I'm still traveling on the cheap. Amsterdam is so expensive; I'm at a youth hostel."

"Youth hostel?" His eyebrows rise. "Do they allow anyone over..." His appraising gaze takes her in. "Thirty?"

"There's no age limit," she says tartly.

"I'm fifty-three," he says.

"Forty-two," she concedes. She peeks at him over her cup's rim. "So you're not in the boys' dorm room?"

He chuckles and she's fascinated by the way that tuft of hair under his lip wiggles. "No, I've got a hotel nearby."

"Businessman in town?" she guesses. He just isn't behaving like a tourist.

"I'm sailing around the world."

"Do people really do that?"

"I do." He carefully folds his small white paper napkin into a boat. "I'm on a twenty-four foot sloop. But she's in dry-dock for maintenance. I'm getting ready to sail around Africa, and I wanted her looked over carefully first. Might have to outrun pirates, after all."

Rose frowns in concern. "Should you—"

"I'll be fine."

She finds her temper rising. Arrogant ass. "So you're independently wealthy, sailing the world—"

"Hardly." He snorts. "A couple of years ago, it was suggested I retire from my job. I saw it as a sign."

"What was your work?"

"I was a Naval pilot."

Suggested he retire...Had she been misunderstanding his interest? "That must have been difficult for you," she says slowly.

"In some ways, yes. I'd been in the service my entire adult life. In another way, I could see their point."

"And it was..." she says, leading.

"They said I had PTSD," he says bluntly.

"Oh!"

"What'd you think I meant—" He connects the dots and bursts out laughing.

"I'm sorry if I offended you—"

He only smiles. "Obviously I'm not trying hard enough."

"You're doing all right." She looks around the table as though searching for a topic to change the subject. "You say _had_ PTSD. You've recovered?"

His features turn to stone. "I was having flashbacks, but I didn't think they were affecting for my ability to serve. My mistake was mentioning them during a routine checkup."

"Those can be very debilitating—"

"The thing is, I'd been in Operation Desert Storm, been injured, was in the first wave of bombing in Iraq—I was fine. But just out of the blue two years ago, when I wasn't even flying combat missions anymore—got too old—these flashbacks started." He stares down into his dregs of the cup. "They were from a different war."

"Perhaps it was a way for your mind to process your traumas," she suggests.

"Well, they're gone now," he says definitely. "And perhaps leaving the service was the best thing. You're not really seeing life from five thousand feet up."

He looks her over again. "Is that why you took this sabbatical? Seeking something?"

Twisting her hands, she gives the slightest of nods. Everyone assumed she was running from something back home, and that was easy to imagine when she was having an affair with her school's married principal, but she'd had this sensation of being late for an appointment, a feeling so overwhelming that she'd had to come on this journey.

"Doesn't look like the rain's letting up," he notes. After a pause, he asks, "Could you walk me back to my hotel with your umbrella?"

"Of course."

They stroll slowly, leaning close under the dripping umbrella, pausing atop the canal bridges to look into the slow-moving black water below. Bicyclists whizzed past, oblivious for the rain.

"Hold on a minute," Rose says. "I need to pop in here." She's stopped before a pharmacy and leaving Adam with the umbrella, hurries in without a backward glance.

Inside, she looks around quickly. "May I help you?" asks a young clerk in English, guessing her nationality.

Rose spots the condom boxes and makes a beeline to the display. Size, size, size... She peers through the shop window at Adam, pacing under the umbrella. She chooses a size based on hand size and hope, and the quantity on the firm plan that no matter what, she will be leaving for Rome on the late afternoon train.

He holds the umbrella over her head when she comes out. "Ready?" he says.

"Yes," she says, smiling at him.

His hotel is a narrow, tall building, a former residence converted to offer a few small, but tastefully expensive rooms. Rose listens to a large clock tick in the silent lounge, watching Adam at the reception desk. He asks for his key from the hotel's owner, a tall woman with a white bun of hair and nearly accentless English. She hands it him and watches them go up the stairs, her gaze speculative.

His room is at the top of three sets of steep steps, the sagging bed sitting under a sloping roof. Rose goes to the small window looking out across a canal to a small church. The bells begin to toll, sending hundreds of pigeons flying against the steel-gray sky.

She lets the lace curtain drop and turns back to Adam. He's shed his coat and waits, hands clasped at his waist loosely.

Undoing her damp coat, she removes it and tosses it to a straight-backed chair in the corner. Her sweater, shapeless from too many washings in a hostel sink, hangs from her shoulders. Should she take that off as well?

Going to her coat, he pulls the box of condoms from the pocket and tosses them on the bed, his smile bemused. She decides not to bother blushing as he approaches.

He kisses her and she forgets to have a plan. Sex with a new man has always been difficult for her. She's like a shy filly, having to be coaxed close, whites of her eyes showing, nostrils flaring to take everything in, then galloping wildly, her mane flying.

But with Adam, time slows. There is none of the urgency of a first encounter. Once their clothes are gone, they sit face to face on the bed, her legs wrapped around his hips, slowly tracing the unseen patterns on their skin. She becomes aware of the very pores on his body. They are like the sunlight swirling across Van Gogh's canvas, both strange and familiar at once. This is so easy, to touch, to kiss, to lean into his solid bulk, to welcome his strength into her weakness.

He has a long, angry red scar running down the center of his chest before veering off across his belly. Yet it doesn't disturb her in the least. She knew it was there. It's a road on the map she's familiar with.

He knows where they're going too. His fingers wander to where their bodies join; he seems to know exactly where to touch her, places even she hadn't discovered.

Her head rests on his sturdy shoulder, and she mouths strange words on his warm skin. His mustache brushes along her cheek, jaw, neck, painting twisted trees and waving stalks of grain.

"I'm right there," he replies to her unknown speech.

He rolls them to lie her down and rises above her, his gaze holding hers. A breeze catches the lace curtains, lifting them away from the window, and she watches the white fabric billow behind him, making her heart beat erratically. There's the grind of sand beneath them, not the bed's duvet.

His eyes are glazed now as though he's in another place. Now he's speaking a foreign language, deep and guttural. She cannot understand the words either, but finds herself saying, "Yes, yes, yes..."

Wrapping her arms around his wide back, she hold him tight as though she expects him to fly away when they shudder with release. Instead, he collapses beside her, his heavy arm pinning her down.

Rose watches the sunlight dance across the room's whitewashed ceiling. Adam is so still, she expects him to be asleep, but when she turns her head, he's watching her, tears hanging on his eyelashes.

She has to leave, now. Her heart flutters in her chest like the whirling pigeons. His eyelashes drift closed, and he does sleep, deeper than she's ever seen another person.

Wide awake, she waits until his arm goes slack. She slides out from under it, and scrambles to pick up all her clothes, waiting to hear his deep voice behind her at any moment. But she slips around the door, and hurries down the stairs without him waking, only garnering the surprised and reproachful glance of the hotelier.

At the hostel, Rose showered quickly, washing off the already familiar scent. Grabbing her bag, she heads to the train station. She just makes her train to Rome, still waiting to hear the deep voice behind her.

She hadn't bothered with securing a sleep berth. Slumping in her rail car's seat, she stares at her reflection in the black window. Street lights outside spin and dip, but she can't close her eyes. If she does, she sees the wheat fields again, and the crows twist into scythe-like shapes, cutting through the sky with a harsh sound that makes her spine tingle.

When exhaustion finally knocks her out, the dreams come. Thundering sounds in her ears, making her skull ache. The train rocks as though it's coming off the rails. Thumping heavy feet echoes as tall armored knights pass through the cars. When the train enters tunnels, she feels a dropping in her stomach and a flicker of light.

"Jump," she mouths.

Dawn finally comes. Hollow-eyed and shaky, Rose drinks coffee and watches the Piedmont roll by the window. She opens her journal, thinking she can write, but only finds herself drawing odd, crude figures, objects like nothing she's ever seen. She slams it shuts and waits for Rome.

After checking into a two-star hotel near the Vatican, a luxury she feels she deserves, Rose decides to walk. She is exhausted and should sleep, but walking always clears her mind.

It's another rainy day. She shields herself with her black umbrella, as if someone's looking for her. She walks by the Tiber, stopping every now and then to stare at the sluggish brown water, not the sleek dark canals of Amsterdam.

She doesn't want to be with crowds and so goes to the Castel Sant'Angelo. The hulking brown cylindrical mausoleum draws her from the damp streets, its shape and weight welcoming. Her footfall echoes as she wanders through it, spiraling higher and higher, looking with little interest at the lavish painted walls and colored marble-inlaid floors of empty, cold rooms.

But inside the armory museum, her heart began to beat erratically. The shining silver knights' helmets seem to be watching her, as though an eye glows through the sight slit. She hurries from the room, back out into the drizzle.

At last, she's at the top of the castle. The rain finally abates, and she tips her umbrella back to look up at the statue of archangel Michael, holding his sword and scabbard. She cannot look away from the long weapon, silhouetted against the roiling sky. It becomes a golden arrow, the angel a blonde woman—

"The threat is gone. The sword can be sheathed," says a familiar low voice at her shoulder.

Dropping her umbrella, Rose whirls to face Adam. "You followed me!" she gasps.

He raises his eyebrows. "I was just thinking the same thing. I flew to Rome last night."

Snatching back up her umbrella, she closes it and clutches it to her chest like the angel with his sword. "But I was coming to Rome on the train!"

"You didn't tell me that," he points out, a smile flickering under the thick mustache.

With a jolt, she realizes he's right. "Why did you come to Rome?" she asks disagreeably.

"My sailboat is at Nettuno, on the coast," he explains. "Its repairs are completed."

"I thought your boat was in the Netherlands."

"You assumed that. I had flown to Amsterdam; I'd run out of museums in Rome." His eyes sparkle with humor, but she sees something else form there... Puzzlement. He muses, "I just felt like going to Amsterdam."

"Yes, I know. I felt that I must go to Rome next."

He tips his head, examining her intently. "Let's get out of here. We need to talk."

"I don't think so." She shakes her head violently.

"You don't?" He squints at her. "As a teacher, aren't you curious?"

She licks her lips quickly, trying to seem casual. "About what?"

He puffs out a great breath. "Oh come on, Laura," he growls.

"Who's Laura?" She clutches her umbrella so hard her knuckles are white.

He puts his arm around her and she doesn't pull away. "You tell me." He sounds as confused as she feels.

"This can't be happening," she whispers.

"What is this?" he asks.

She leans into his warmth. "I don't know." Tears are threatening.

"I don't have a room," he says, frustrated.

"My hotel is close."

"Hotel? Not a hostel bunk?"

He's broken the spell. She slaps his chest lightly. "No! A real hotel room."

"Let's go," he says intently.

"All right," she concedes.

The walk down is long and Rose feels as though the angel is watching their every step. At the street, Adam gets a taxi for them.

When she closes the hotel room door behind them, he's turns to her, quick for his bulk. He gathers her face, kissing her deeply.

"I thought you wanted to talk," she finally gasps.

"I want to hold you."

She drops her damp coat to the floor and tugs for his coat. They lay on the bed, embracing, looking deep into each other's eyes. She starts to shake. He gathers her closer, holding her tightly, and cradling her head into the crook of his neck.

"I can't feel my body," she whispers.

"Don't worry. I've got you. I'll catch you when you're falling."

"I have been falling," she admits. "From some great height."

"In the stars," he rasps.

"Tell me about your war," she says, twining her fingers through his lush, damp hair.

"I haven't told anyone—"

"Tell me," she demands, urgent.

"I'm in a jet, but it's in the stars, not the sky. The carrier is in space, not on the water." She can feel him gulp for hair as his Adam's apple bobs by her cheek. "I don't think they're flashbacks. I think they're the future."

"Yes," she says, weak with relief. "Not now. Sometime beyond our lifetimes."

He chuckles roughly. His big hands sweep across her back. "What about the future?"

"Can we stop it?"

"I don't think so," he admits. "But I meant tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." She furrows her brow.

"Yeah. What's next for you? Florence? Venice?"

"I don't know," she says slowly. "I had to come to Rome. That's all I know. The Eternal City."

He chuckles again, the deep sound resonating through her body.

Then his voice becomes serious. "Come with me."

"Where? Africa?"

"Doesn't matter. We can go to Cyprus, Greece. Take in the ruins."

She doesn't answer, only begins to breathe as though running.

"Is there someone back in the States?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "No, there's no one."

"Then call your family and tell them you're going on a journey."

"There's no one," she repeats.

His lips seeks her mouth, slowly tracing its smile.

Breaking the kiss, she nestled against his chest, listening to the thud of his heart, like a huge engine's deep rumble. "When should we go?" she asks, unsure and yet utterly certain for the first time in her life.

"Now," he commands, rising from the bed.

He holds his hand to her and she accepts it, her blood pounding like war drums.

Adam hires a driver to take them to Nettuno, a small seaside town. The heaving Fiat delivers them right down to the quay, after a hair-raising drive from Rose's Rome hotel. Adam gathers her bags from the trunk, tips the driver generously. and leads her along the sun-warmed dock.

"Sunny weather at last," she notes with approval, looping her arm with his. "I'll need to get some dresses, sandals..."

He smiles down at her. "I'd like that."

They stop beside a sleek wooden-hulled sailboat. "She's not the fastest vessel on the water," he says with pride. "But she's a tough old bird."

Rose cranes her neck to look at the name on the stern. " _Galactica_. Interesting name."

"We'll ride her under the stars," he promises, helping her leap aboard.

~The end~


End file.
